


The Symphony of Siblings

by BlockMenGoBrr



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: All my homies hate that green tellytubbie, Cat Hybrid Wilbur Soot, Dream Smp, Enderman Hybrid Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Found Family, Gen, Gladiators, I will stop you to death with my hooves, If you even look at this romantically, Minor Character Death, Not RPF, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Raccoon TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), technoblade is a good brother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28821870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlockMenGoBrr/pseuds/BlockMenGoBrr
Summary: Technoblade is in a constant battle between wanting to run from his past and find those he has lost. Ranboo, on the other hand, can't even remember his.Maybe their pasts are more intertwined than either of them ever expected.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Ranboo & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 139





	The Symphony of Siblings

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to my side account where i can post my cringe block men fics
> 
> if u can tell what my main is feel free to guess in the comments lol

The Blade doesn’t remember most of his childhood. 

Not because he could, but simply because he willingly blocked it out of his mind. If he stood by himself for too long, the voices would begin to whisper to him, not necessarily about his past, but almost definitely things that would lead his hyperactive brain down a wormhole, usually ending in a panic attack as he relived every childhood trauma he had. 

His first memory was six weeks after his sixth birthday, at least connected to the calendar of the People of the Overworld. He went a bit too close to the big black blocks and swirly mist his tribe always warned him against, but one of the Overworldians was clad in the yellow shiny material that attracted any piglin with a working set of eyes. 

Once he stepped into the purple mist, the world swam before him as his stomach churned and his balance left him. When the world finally righted itself, he found himself on his knees, knelt on a foreign terrain dyed with colors he’s only seen on the soldiers his family fought against viciously. 

He looked up, breaths heavy, trying to adapt to the air that just felt a bit too cold against his throat. The two Overworldians that just passed through were still there, now leaning over the mob. One slowly went to touch his face, but the young piglin snarled, baring his tusks in the best way he could. 

That’s when the Overworldians realized something was wrong, at the same time the piglin child realized something wasn’t quite right. He didn’t get to process this, though, due to the fact two netherite circlets were fastened around his wrists, connected with a chain.

He doesn’t remember the trip to the Hypixel realm. All he remembers is being thrown into a cage in an empty room. There was a small puddle on the floor, which he carefully leaned over, examining himself closely. 

His own face did not greet him. The figure staring back up at him was far closer to an Overworldian than anything the child had seen in the nether. His skin was still much pinker than most Overworldians, but didn’t have the vibrancy of his tribe. Almost all of his piglin features were melted back, softened to what he is guessing was the looks of an Overworldian. His teeth were still sharp, his tusks barely peeking out, and his nose was a bit more squished up than most of those who realm the overworld. His ears also still flopped out from the long strands of pink hair falling around his place. 

What was wrong with him?

All he remembers is scratching at the walls and floor of his cell until his fingernails fell off, newly found hands pouring blood out onto the floor, and blacking out.

* * *

He didn’t know how long he was asleep. All he knows is that when he woke up, there was another being in his cell, leaning against the one true wall at the back, head bowed in sleep. Much like the way he saw the soldiers of his tribe rest when they were still on high alert. The young child slowly stood from his sleeping position, his hooves hitting against the concrete with loud, hollow echoing. Though he knew he shouldn’t, the young piglin gently touched the elder’s shoulder. 

The man shot awake, eyes snapping open, hands immediately searching for a weapon that was not there. The man calmed himself, shoulders slowly untensing, not all the way, but enough. The man’s long hair, a slightly darker shade than the younger’s, was pulled into a high ponytail. He had the same nose and teeth as the child, though one of his tusks was cracked and a yellow ring slid through his two nostrils.   


“H̵̠̗̚͜ē̶͍̾̿͌̈́l̷͓͇̹͂̎l̵̘̯̊̔o̴̟̹̪̤͆̑̈́͜?̴̲̺̠͒̋” the man asks carefully. The younger didn’t understand him, flinching back at the foreign sounds. The man shook his head gently and repeated his greeting in piglin. The child smiled, finally grateful for something familiar in this strange place, something he could understand.

They exchanged names, the younger being ｲ乇ᄃん刀の, the elder の尺ﾉの刀. の尺ﾉの刀 explained their situation to the child, they were both piglin-Overworldian hybrids, both born in the nether, but taken to fight. の尺ﾉの刀 was assigned to the new ‘recruit’ to train him and teach him of the languages of the Overworld. 

That first night, though, ｲ乇ᄃん刀の was taught how to braid long hair, being told hybrids like them were not given the luxury of haircuts (he would never get the hang of it). 

As the weeks went on, he was taught by の尺ﾉの刀 to work every weapon to at least an above adequate degree. ｲ乇ᄃん刀の, though, did prefer the axe, able to tear down the shields always placed in front of him. 

Sometimes, he’d feel an overwhelming guilt weigh on his conscious late at night, where he would crawl over to his roommate, seeking help and comfort. 

“ﾉｲ'丂 乇ﾉｲん乇尺 ﾘのひ の尺 ｲん乇ﾶ, ｲ乇ᄃん刀の.” の尺ﾉの刀 would say. Not comforting, but the truth. 

It was kill or be killed. 

Though ｲ乇ᄃん刀の was a natural at fighting, his mind never quite worked the same with languages, barely understanding the alphabet, let alone the words or sentences. の尺ﾉの刀 tried to comfort him, but the child could feel the fear in the elder’s chest. 

It wasn’t from の尺ﾉの刀, but the first Overworldian word ｲ乇ᄃん刀の learned was “Monster.”

* * *

It was his one year anniversary at the arena when ｲ乇ᄃん刀の was first forced into armour and into the arena. 

Through the past year, の尺ﾉの刀 had taught ｲ乇ᄃん刀の to shift between his Nether and Overworld form. Natural piglins grew faster than Overworld children, so though he was already big for a seven-year-old, he was even larger in his natural form. He stood at 5’5”, two inches above another fighter in the arena of the age of sixteen. 

の尺ﾉの刀 walked him to the arena, gently holding his hand, both in their Overworld form. When they reached the gate, の尺ﾉの刀 pulled him into a hug, tighter than the young child had ever felt before. 

“ᄃのﾶ乇 のひｲ ﾑﾚﾉ√乇.” the elder murmured in their native language. “刀の ﾶﾑｲｲ乇尺 Wんﾑｲ, ﾶﾘ 乃尺のｲん乇尺, ｱﾚ乇ﾑ丂乇 ᄃのﾶ乇 乃ﾑᄃズ.”

ｲ乇ᄃん刀の stood on his tiptoes, wrapping his arms around the neck of the elder piglin. 

They weren’t able to say anything else when ｲ乇ᄃん刀の was dragged away, forced into a room where he had to shift into his other  his monster form.

He needs to get back. For の尺ﾉの刀.

For his brother. 

The game was simple enough. A free for all between him and 19 other players. 

Even for a child, slaughtering them methodically was child’s play, until his boot was resting on the last opponent’s exposed skull, axe driven straight through their sternum. He sent one last look of guilt towards the dying Overworldian as the last bit of life drained from her eyes.

His breath was heavy and labored as the announcer shouted, “And our winner is, the fearsome piglin hybrid himself, The Blade!”

He didn’t look up. He didn’t stop staring at the ground until he reached his empty room.

“の尺ﾉの刀?” he whispered, relief evident in his voice. He finally looked up from his feet. 

On the wall opposite of him, his elder brother was pinned to the concrete, two crossbow bolts in his wrists, one right through his ribcage. 

“の尺ﾉの刀!”

* * *

Back at home, funerals were a celebration. The fallen piglin was dressed in gold and sunken in the lava pits before they left and told the great stories of the dead.

の尺ﾉの刀 didn’t get a funeral.

* * *

The Blade barely remembers his real name anymore. 

The only reason he remembers is because, before they took his body away, The Blade stole his dagger off of him and carved the name into his own right calf, both his and his brother’s. It’s been years since he let himself get close to another fighter. He’d learned long ago, no one survives forever in the arena. 

The Blade doesn’t know how long he’s been in the arena’s cages (he’d later learn that it had been seven years at that point). All he knew at the time was that his hair had grown from shoulder length to reaching mid-back, the only haircuts coming from a stolen dagger once every year or so. 

He planned on dying in the arena, with no one caring about him, and caring about no one. 

At least, that was the plan until a hybrid was thrown into his cage, still crying, still handcuffed. The Blade slowly approached him. He gently laid a hand on the child’s shoulder, but the child screamed like the tall, dark monsters in his old home. The boy started rapidly flashing in and out of existence, handcuffs dropping in the process. 

“Child,” The Blade stated. “Calm. You are safe, for now.”

The voices in his head (a newer addition that started soon after his elder brother had died) whispered,  _ The child. Who's this weird child. Adopt him, blood god. Child here crabrave! _

The boy finally stopped flashing, hands tightly gripping his own shirt. The Blade was able to get a better look at him. He was half black, half white, split by a wobbly line down his center. His eyes were red and green, like the decorations around the arena during the colder months. Two horns popped out of his forehead, barely grown. Despite being curled in on himself, The Blade could still see how lanky the child in front of him was. 

The Blade asked for the boy’s name. The boy replied in Enchanting Table, which the child is lucky that The Blade had really gotten into learning every language he could after his brother died. The child also rambled off his age, which was eight. The Blade asked what species he was, and when the child replied with half-enderman and half-something he could never remember, he remembered being surprised. 

Also annoyed that an eight year old was as tall as him, enderman hybrid or not. 

It seems that The Blade was to the hybrid as his brother was to him. A mentor, a teacher, a  _ friend. _

But, no. The Blade wouldn’t get attached. No matter what.

* * *

The Blade got attached. 

The child was smart, very smart and logical and rational, and he excelled at learning languages, and math, and anything else he could get his hands on. Combat, however, he was useless at. He hated violence, he always said he didn’t want to pick sides. His guilty conscience was even heavier than The Blade’s, and it hurt when the child pressed himself into his side during the night. 

The Blade was happy for the lack of combat skills. It kept him out of competitions. It kept him  _ alive. _

Until the child turned ten, and the first challenge he was thrown into was SkyBlock. 

Everything after that was fuzzy, as if multiple layers of static were laid over the memories. 

The Blade remembers telling him to stay safe, play smart, and come back alive. 

He remembers hugging the child as tightly as his elder brother hugged him before his first challenge.

He remembers watching the pickaxe connect with the child’s temple.

He remembers losing another brother.

And he remembers another name carved into his right calf.

* * *

The Blade is cursed. He must be. Why else would both of his brothers die so soon after The Blade admitted to caring for them?

He was a fool. He knew not to care for him. Yet he didn’t listen to himself. 

He was going to die. Alone. No one caring about him. Him caring about no one.

He’d make sure of it.

* * *

The Blade created a plan. He had competitions every day for three days after his brother's death. On the third day, he would come in second. And he would be slaughtered, refusing to take place in the senseless, bloody entertainment anymore. 

The plan lasted for exactly two days.

On the night of the second day, blood still staining his hands, a man walked in, quietly shutting the door behind him, more carefully than any guard bringing food ever had. Techno stood quickly, blood rushing to his head, snarling despite his nausea. 

The man put up his hands in surrender. He slowly approached the bars, holding out his hand. He spoke in piglin, making The Blade’s breath catch in his throat. His piglin was rusty, but The Blade got the gist of what he was saying.

The man was there to  _ help him _ .

So, of course, The Blade told him his piglin sucked and that he understood Overworldian just fine. 

The man just laughed. The blonde plucked a feather from his wings, using the end to carefully pick the lock to The Blade’s cage. The Blade took a careful step towards the entrance, still limping from the new cuts in his leg. The blonde asked if The Blade wanted him to step back. The Blade says yes. 

He doesn’t fully know how, he doesn’t fully know  _ why, _ but the blonde winged man got him out of the arena. And they were on their way to a different server.

* * *

The walk was a weird mix of complete silence and the blonde trying to learn more about him. 

“So, what’s your name.”

“The Blade.”

“No, mate, like your  _ real  _ name.”

The Blade glared at him. 

“Alright, sensitive topic. Well, I’m Phil.”

“Don’t care.”

Silence.

“So, why are you limping? You didn’t get injured in today’s fight.”

The Blade glared again. 

“Not one for talking, huh?”

The Blade stayed silent. So did Phil. 

“How old are you?”

The Blade shrugged. Phil stayed silent. 

The next person to initiate was The Blade, fully startling the winged man. “Why’d you save me?”

“Well, you’re hurt, aren’t you?”

“There are hundreds of people volunteering for the competitions every day. Why did you save me?  _ How did you even know to? _ ”

“Well, Blade, you’re a piglin hybrid, yes?” Phil took The Blade’s silence as confirmation. “I have taken in young, mistreated hybrids for a while now. Two are still in my care, since I had adopted them, but many have moved on. Whenever there is a hybrid being mistreated on any damn server, trust me. I have ways of knowing.”

The Blade didn’t say anything. Neither did Phil. They just made their way back to Phil’s home.

* * *

The Blade was immediately overwhelmed when a weird child ran up to them, screaming, “OH MY GOD, PHIL, GUESS WHAT HAPPENED, IT’S INSANE-”

While Phil easily scooped up the child, The Blade flinched back, hand reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Phil carefully shushed the blonde kid. 

“Tommy, remember how I said I was going to get a new roommate? Well, this is him.”

The kid’s eyes went wide, and he grinned, showing off four small fangs, two on the top, two on the bottom. He yelled, “Hi, new guy! I’m Tommy!”

The Blade’s eyes narrowed, relaxing from his fighting position. He looked the child up and down. One of his grubby hands was held out, short claws. He didn’t know what the child was trying to do, so he just glared. The blonde didn’t falter under his gaze. 

Phil whispered something to his child, and the child finally dropped his hand. He tilted his head, still never breaking gazes with Techno. At least not until Phil suddenly said, “Tommy, this is Blade. Blade, this is Tommy.”

“ _ The _ Blade.”

“Alright, kid.  _ The  _ Blade.”

Tommy sucked in a breath. “That’s so cool! It’s like a stage name! So poggers!!”

The Blade’s lip started to curl, and he had to keep himself from actually snarling at the child. 

“Alright, The Blade, how about I show you to your room, hm?”

* * *

The room was weird, unfamiliar, and most importantly,  _ uncomfortable. _

Of course, the plush mattress of Phil’s house was much better than the concrete floor he’s been sleeping on for the past twelve years, but it just felt wrong. 

So, in the middle of the night, he pulled himself out of the bed (also, what the fuck is a blanket and who would ever need one?), he found himself sleeping under a wooden table. 

A little later in the middle of the night, he was rudely awakened by someone screaming (he doesn’t know what it says about him that he doesn’t even flinch at screams at night anymore). He slowly blinked his eyes open, squinting at the warm light that now flooded the kitchen. He saw two legs at the doorway and heard two more sprinting down the stairs. 

“Wil? Wil, what’s wrong?”

“ _ PHIL, THERE’S SOMEONE UNDER THE TABLE!” _

“What? Where’s the sw- oh. Don’t worry, Wil. He’s friendly,” he heard phil say.

The Blade couldn’t help the growl that bubbled up in his throat. 

“Oh, yeah, real friendly!” the voice he didn’t recognize sarcastically replied. 

Phil (he’s guessing, at least) sighed before crouching down, looking under the table at The Blade. “Hey, Bl-  _ The  _ Blade. Whatcha doing under the table?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Too…” The Blade paused to think of the exact word, “ _ soft. _ ”

“Ah, you’re used to sleepin’ on the floor, aren’t ya, mate?” When The Blade nodded, Phil chewed on the inside of his cheek before saying, “Well, we need to get you used to your bed, better for your spine, ya know? So, you can sleep here for tonight, but how about you try to start sleeping on some blankets on the floor?”

“...blankets are stupid.”

This startled a laugh out of Phil. “Whatever, kid. We can properly introduce you to Wilbur in the morning. Night, Blade.”

“ _ The  _ Blade!”

Phil flicked off the lights. “Whatever you say, The Blade. C’mon, Wil, let’s go back to bed.”

“What the fuck is ‘The Blade?’”

“You’ll learn tomorrow, buddy.”

The Blade, thankfully, was not disturbed for the rest of the night.

* * *

The Blade got far too comfortable around Phil and his family in far too little time. 

Tommy was a loud and obnoxious racoon hybrid who had a habit of stealing anything shiny or anything he just thinks is neat, but he was also cheerful and ready to learn how to fight at any point. The Blade can’t count how many times he had to tell the ten year old  _ no,  _ the literal trained, seasoned gladiator isn’t going to fight a weak child. 

Wilbur was practically the opposite of his younger brother. He was a cat hybrid, ears peaking out of his fluffy hair that he always kept hidden by a beanie, only a year older than Techno. He was smart, far too smart for his own good. He already knew piglin, enchanting table, overworldian, and whatever language fish speak (he apparently learned this from a mermaid named Sally, but The Blade never quite believed that). 

They were both just as welcoming as Phil was. 

That doesn’t mean The Blade was about to trust them about any injuries he may or may not have. At least, it wasn’t the plan until Phil noticed the medical supplies that mysteriously went missing. Phil tried his best to be non-confrontational, but The Blade can admit he was being annoyingly difficult. 

It came to an end one day when just under a week of staying with Phil, The Blade was in the backyard, swinging an axe around just to blow off steam. The other kids were at the next door neighbors, where they’re both friends with two separate ram hybrids. Everything was great (The Blade was able to get rid of the image of a pickaxe being driven through a child’s temple for the first time in a long time), at least until one of the cuts in his calf split open, and blood was rushing out much faster than The Blade would’ve really liked. 

So, he did what he always did. Limped to where he hid those medical supplies. The problem? Phil was in the kitchen, sipping coffee, right by the backdoor. As soon as he saw The Blade limping, he stopped him, made The Blade tell him where he hid the medical supplies. 

Phil was the one to take care of the injuries. 

(Phil was the first person to take care of  _ him _ .)

“You wanna talk about why you’ve been hiding your injury from me?”

The Blade stayed silent.

“Could you at least tell me why you did this? These aren’t random slashes, bud.”

The Blade thought for a second before taking a leap of faith and saying, “To remember.”

“Remember what?”

The Blade was already taking a risk, why not a few more?

Techno pointed at the top name, の尺ﾉの刀, “Elder brother,” he pointed to the bottom name, Rᔑリʖ𝙹𝙹, “Younger.”

“Where are they now?"

The Blade felt his hands shake. He hated this. “Dead.”

Phil clearly didn’t know what to say, only awkwardly patting the younger’s knee. “What about the middle one?”

The Blade swallowed even harder. “That’s… that’s my name.”

“In overworldian, it’s  _ Techno, _ right?” 

“Yea. I believe so.”

“Do you mind if I called you that?”

The Blade didn’t answer. Phil didn’t push. 

They finished wrapping The Blade’s leg in silence.

* * *

It was almost an entire month later, but The Blade finally answered Phil’s question. 

“Technoblade,” he mumbled to the winged man. “But, Techno for short is okay, too.”

* * *

Techno stayed with Phil for five years. 

He barely expected to stay for one year, let alone five, but eventually he began to care about Phil and his kids like family, not like he’d ever tell them that. Tommy and Wilbur became like brothers to the piglin. Of course, Wilbur wasn’t の尺ﾉの刀, Tommy wasn’t Rᔑリʖ𝙹𝙹, but they were enough. 

They had to be. 

Despite this, Techno always had an agreement with himself, ever since he got out of the arena. He wanted to find his family. He doesn’t remember what server’s nether he was actually from, but he would find it if it’s the last thing he would do. 

He finally got the courage to leave once Wilbur and Tommy announced they were off to a new server, one that was opened only a few months ago, owned by a friend of a friend. Three months after they left, Techno finally brought his plan up to Phil. 

Phil agreed to send him off. 

The day Techno was going to leave, Phil pressed a cross-server communicator into Techno’s hand and made him swear to keep in touch. When Techno agreed, he was pulled into a hug, something he hasn’t received in years.

And Techno went on his ways, occasionally getting messages from Phil checking up on the piglin or from Tommy or Wilbur talking about some place called L’Manberg that Wilbur was apparently president of. 

Techno plans to stay far away from any place Wilbur rules over. 

Most of the time, he was wandering from server to server, making stops in every nether he could, never finding what exactly he was looking for. What he did find, though, was either the best or worst thing Techno could have found. 

A leather bound book, with a bit of enchanting table he couldn’t understand and bit more he could never forget. 

_ Rᔑリʖ𝙹𝙹 _

He immediately started flipping through the pages, only understanding the few words that he had picked up from Wilbur. His hands shook as he examined the spine, seeing the clear number  _ 2  _ underneath the writing. 

That means there was at least one more. 

That means his little brother is still alive. 

At least, he was. 

And he was living in fear as Techno was relaxing with Phil. 

_ Son of a bitch. _

* * *

Techno’s goal was immediately rearranged, instead looking for any book with text matching the one he found first. So far, he had gotten  _ 2, 4, 7,  _ and  _?. _ These most likely spanned years, each book containing a hundred yellowing, worn down pages. Worst of all, it seemed like his brother forgot just how many books he’s written. 

His search came to an end when Tommy and Wilbur kept spamming his communicator, begging him to fight in a war for the country they built. 

Techno couldn’t get the slimy feeling of the fact he was being used as a weapon once again. 

But, Tommy and Wilbur were family, even if he wouldn’t admit it, so he went on his way towards the Dream SMP.

* * *

At one point between the beginning of the Pogtopia war and Wilbur blowing up the country, Dream came to find Techno. The masked man leaned against the entrance of the room Techno was sharpening his axe in.

“Ah, Technoblade!” the man greeted, one hand hidden behind his back. Techno had never trusted him, even though Wilbur said that Dream was their ally now (though, Wilbur’s mental state had definitely declined ever since he left home-)

“What’d’ya want?” Techno asked shortly, not even looking up from his sharpening. 

From the corner of his eye, Techno watched Dream saunter around the stone room, still keeping something purposely out of sight. “Well, Blade, I have something that I know would interest you.”

“Doubt it.” 

“Really? Well, at least tell me if you recognize  _ this _ .”

A book landed on the ground in front of Techno’s feet, and his heart dropped to his stomach.

“ _ Where, _ ” he growled out, “ _ did you fucking get that? _ ”

“I have my ways,” Dream shrugged, voice holding no emotion, but the piglin heard the manipulative undertones. “First addition, too. Quite rare, hm?”

Laying right in front of him laid the first book his younger brother wrote, four words in enchanting table that Techno had agonized over sprawled across the front. 

Techno lunged to grab it, but Dream’s foot dropped on top of it, preventing him from picking it up. He leaned over into the hybrid face.

“Ah, ah, ah, this isn’t just some gift, you know! I expect something in return.”

Techno glared into the beady, black eyes, emotionless and cold at the same time. “What. Do. You. Want?”

Dream released the book from underfoot, and Techno could almost feel Dream smirking under his damned mask.

“You have a way to get withers, yes?”


End file.
